Creative Writing by Kate Everson

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It’s like painting a wall that’s been beat up over the last year with a fresh color, but neglecting to first fill in the angry gouge we made the night we realized we let someone else do the same to our self-confidence. The pin pricks that accrued quietly and subtly as a relationship deteriorated until they became a full cavity. The scattered knuckle-sized dents from when we beat ourselves up over not landing that job, not saying “no” to that cheesecake, not writing all week. It’s easier to ignore the past and try to cover it up.

To make the paint stick and the resolutions work, you need to examine every flaw and determine just how much spackle is needed to fill it in, to heal it. Sometimes you overcompensate: You see a nail hole from a poorly placed priority and glop it on, creating that a swath of stucco that has to be sanded down to get back to the true wall — the true self. Other times you have no idea just how many layers of putty are needed to heal a seemingly shallow dent from a misguided comment, so it takes a few tries. But you do it all thoroughly, and you learn as you go, and promise that next year there won’t be so much to fix.

There will be, by the way. Possibly more. But that’s next year.

Then, only then, can you start to paint with the new color: Resolve to work out more, eat better, drink less alcohol, drink more water, work harder, work smarter, work only 9 to 5, start a side business, invent something, pitch that novel, finish that screenplay, find the one, ditch the loser, spend more time with family, travel independently, read more books, surf the web less, call that friend from college, delete your Facebook. Every resolution completed is another layer of paint, but every failure is another scratch you’re already prepared to fix this time next year.

During one of our imaginary conversations
She called me “perfect”
And I laughed so hard that the Singapore lager
(which I ordered because it had a tiger on the bottle)
Foamed up in the back of my throat
And made me choke on the joke.

Perfect? I suppose I am.
Perfectly imperfect.
Perfect in the way pi is perfect
Because it makes no sense
On purpose
But still has a purpose.

I’m a manic pixie dream girl
Who is mentally stable,
Weighs 150 pounds,
Can’t fly,
Doesn’t like The Smiths,
Zonks out in the backseat during your road trip to find yourself,
Finds nightmares more worth her time than dreams,
And despises that after earning a degree and two promotions
Is still called “girl” in common colloquialism.

As I pass by good opportunities
I wave at them
With the same lolling wrist-roll
As royalty regarding subjects out a foggy car window
Just before the cavalcade careens off a cliff.

I choreograph zombie chases
To Stevie Wonder hits
While I walk to work.

I wait for text messages that never come
But refuse to make the first move
Because I’m stubborn
(but not really),
Because I like being chased
(but only by people I want chasing me),
And mostly because I’m terrified of appearing too aggressive
(even though I am).

My neighbors know my real-time reactions
To reruns of Designing Women
Not because the walls are that thin
But because I’m that loud
In my passion for Annie Potts.

It took me an inexcusable amount of time
To learn that Britney Spears wasn’t the original artist
Behind “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”
And I felt betrayed by my elders
When I finally found out.

I expect too much and not enough all at once.

(I stole that last line from a Fall Out Boy song.)

I write poems that suck
Paragraphs that suck
Short stories that suck
And then post them online
And anxiously await comments that say they suck,
That say they don’t,
And that try to sell me all-natural male enhancement hormones.

The smell of Jack Daniels makes me gag
Because it reminds me of fumbling hands, slippery tongues and blurry faces
Encountered during dim nights in college,
And also the death of Janis Joplin.

I fall in love too fast
Because I imagine conversations with people
That make our relationship seem stronger than it is,
That make them seem more interested in me than they are,
That make me seem more perfectly imperfect than I am.
Like this one, right now.

In Part Two of my year-end wrap-up, I’m looking at the scenes from this year’s television and film debuts that had a particular influence on my writing. Note that like my music list, these aren’t all my favorites of the year — Get Out, Baby Driver, Atomic Blonde and Stranger Things Season 2 are noticeably missing — but these are some of the scenes that really got to the writer in me. It also only includes releases from this year, not discoveries: Otherwise Brooklyn Nine-Nine and Arrival would have probably dominated.

Television

“Feeling Good” from Legion (FX)

Nina Simone’s opening vocals during this part because could only mean one thing: smouldering mischief. Bassnectar’s remix of her classic song has always been a favorite, but watching Noah Hawley’s use of it in his X-Men adaptation — and Aubrey Plaza’s decadent interpretation of it as mind parasite Lenny — showed that a smart writer/showrunner can inject a borderline burlesque number into anything.

Note that the entire season of Legion could be added to this list because of its smart, adventurous take on the superhero origin story. Not only did it carry with it complex female characters, but it also blended the absurd with the expected into a series that left the viewer feeling both confused and intelligent.

“Unfair,” A Handmaid’s Tale Episode 1.6 (Hulu)

Hulu’s series stretches Atwood’s novel to fill a series — and a second, coming in April 2018 — and in doing so indicts even more of today’s culture that reflects its dystopia. When Aunt Lydia asks certain handmaids to return to the van because their injuries and disabilities (most of which are the result of her punishments) aren’t attractive enough to present to the visiting Mexican delegation, it’s a reminder of how even in our fiction we tend to “clean up” our casts unless a particular disability plays a role in the story.

Of course, not every author does this. John Green’s Turtles All the Way Down looks at a teenage girl with an anxiety disorder but focuses on her story, not her mental health; Mad Max: Fury Road features a protagonist with a prosthetic that’s rarely a topic of discussion. But in less than two minutes of television, writers are asked whether they’re as guilty of ableism as Aunt Lydia.

“Paterfamilias,” The Crown Episode 2.9 (Netflix) **SPOILER**

I just saw this last night, but it’s going to stick with me for a while. In Season 2’s ninth episode, we learn a terribly sad backstory about Philip that explains some of his awful parenting skills: The death of his sister. Instead of letting it be a static, quiet moment, however, the show thrusts audiences into young Philip’s thought process as he imagines what it was like for his favorite sister, who was afraid to fly, to give birth mid-flight and then die in a plane crash. Rupert Gregson-Williams’ score and a cadre of imagery as 16-year-old Philip explores the chaotic wreckage and hears his sister’s cries in his mind shows how showing, not telling, is critical to the storytelling process.

Film

Wonder Woman (DC/Warner Brothers)

Yep, the whole damn thing. From the “No Man’s Land” sequence listed on multiple best-ofs this year and alleyway fight that shows Diana (Gal Gadot) saving Steve Trevor (Chris Pine) from a bullet a la Superman, to the improvised conversation they have about female reproduction and sexual needs and 50-something Robin Wright’s appearance as an Amazon general, every moment of this movie made me excited for a future full of female protagonists who have depth, strength, humor, motivation and compassion — and aren’t described only as “bad-ass.”

Every imagination sequence in The Incredible Jessica James (Netflix)

This year we finally got a full-length feature starring former Daily Show contributor and personal hero Jessica Williams. When it ended, I stood up in my empty apartment and gave a round of applause because it’s feminist, honest, inspiring and makes me want to be a better writer and person in general. But the most standout parts of it are the titular playwright’s imagination sequences of her ex confessing his love for her and then dying in increasingly dramatic ways. As a writer, these fake conversations with real people are all too familiar.

The Disaster Artist (A21)

Despite its ridiculous real-life protagonist, Tommy Wiseau, The Disaster Artist never stoops to make fun of him, but rather portray him as the eccentric dreamer who went from joke to legend by making one of the worst films ever made. When Tommy Wiseau (James Franco) leaves the theater where the audience is cackling at his comically bad romantic drama, Franco’s performance and direction turns a ridiculous character into someone who is more than a multiple-belt-wearing, ambiguously accented, mysteriously wealthy eccentric. Suddenly The Disaster Artist audience is shamed for laughing at Tommy throughout the rest of the picture. It’s emotional manipulation at its best since Gone Girl, but instead of viewers feeling betrayed, they feel as if they’ve done the betraying.

Honorable mention: First trailer forA Wrinkle in Time

I watch this trailer once a week and the chills don’t stop. Madeline D’Engel was past 40 when she finally got this book published. Ava DuVernay translated it with a rich, diverse cast that shows the impenetrable flexibility of strong fiction. Is it March 2018 yet?

With all the year-end lists of best musical contributions made in 2017, here’s one specially geared toward writers looking for that symphonic oomph that makes fights, chases, discoveries, deceptions, romance and deaths materialize on the page. Note that this list doesn’t include all my favorites of the year — Kendrick Lamar’s Damn. is a work of art, but not necessarily writing music for this creative (yet) — but covers the best inspiration found pumping through my speakers.

Synthesis by Evanescence: Not a new album per se but a reimagining of the band’s past work using orchestral and electronic arrangements, mostly for better and sometimes for worse. Forgettable B-sides from The Open Door and their 2012 self-titled album become dramatic character themes that are tinged with beautiful agony thanks to Amy Lee’s undying vocals. Notable tracks include “Never Go Back,”“Hi-Lo” and “The End of the Dream.”

Best Vocal Track:

“Wonderful Wonderful” by The Killers

“Wonderful Wonderful” by The Killers: Blend the right amount of echo, deep drumbeats and Jefferson Airplane mysticism, and you’ve got the titular track of The Killers’ 2017 track that fits the titular character of the project I spent the most time on this year.

Honorable mentions:

“Drew Barrymore” by SZA: Everything from the opening line “Why is it so hard to accept the party is over?” to the refrain “Am I woman enough for you?” sums up the kind of relationship I wrote about most this year.

“Young and Menace” by Fall Out Boy: Forget everything you know about the “Dance, Dance” alternative band of the aught-2000s. Beat drops, high energy, strobe lights you can practically hear: Everything about this track screams superhero/mutant fight with a teen-emo bend steeped in acid.

“Supermarine” by Hans Zimmer: If there’s one thing the German composer does well (and there are millions of things he does well — trust me, I saw him perform live in August), it’s instilling a sense of urgency into his music. Dunkirk’s key track does just this by syncing listeners’ pulses to the quickening beat that acts as a perfect backdrop to a time’s-running-out situation.

“Think” by Kaleida: Shallow and soulful all at the same time, Kaleida’s track plays ironic backup to one of the bloodiest scenes in John Wick and provides the same quiet but sinister word-per-beat promise of “Think on me; I’ll never break your heart” to any investigation montage or illicit affair scene.

Treats by Sleigh Bells: Here’s some loud chainsaw music that wrecks headphones and amps alike and is the base soundtrack for writing Mad Max: Fury Road meets Mean Girls.

He thought — and then red wine made him say it aloud — that he shouldn’t adore her so much. He dreaded how it would end for him.

The thing about adoration is that it fades fast, like a half-formed idea that’s forgotten among the hustle of a day only to reappear in the dead of night when he rolled over and smell her perfume on his skin, or hear in his head how she somehow could pronounce “literally” as “litchrally” without sounding pedantic. All he’d think about for the next 30 seconds of wakefulness was her: Wonderful, riveting her.

But dread? That’s what kept him up the rest of the night after her perfume had faded and voice had quieted. He studied the book of everything they had said, done, planned, agreed upon, disagreed upon, bonded over or fought over in hopes of calming or confirming his fears that this was a paperback beach read of a relationship. So many nights he stayed up reading and hoping with every page turn that he would find a passage that proved this wasn’t just an author’s cruel joke of a novel meant to make smart readers feel outmaneuvered.

Just as he rounded the 10th or 11th chapter — he had lost count of how many nights he had spent on her porch, on her couch, in her bed — he realized that he had to make a choice. He could keep running his eyes along every curve of every letter of every word, hoping to find a single phrase pointing to this relationship not being a waste of time.

Or he could leave this book, unfinished and unwanted, for someone else to try to decipher late at night. Best wishes to whoever cracked her spine next.

I found myself self writing a villain’s monologue to this piece while sitting in a dark room last night, which seems appropriate given what happens during this part of Christopher Nolan’s “Insterstellar.” The Mozart-influenced piece builds as the drama does:

“She’s like a mouse in a maze. She knows where the center is, but she also knows that the bigger rat following her is more interested in keeping her from the prize than earning it for himself. So she runs along a small patch, hoping that it’s enough to keep him at bay while also close enough for her to make her move given the chance. If he — I — ever give her a chance, that is.”

All these people were walking a tightrope at one point: Balancing in a line on a line until the cable forked and some went left and some went right. And as they struggled even harder to make it on their own lines, they noticed the other lines and declared “mine is better” or “yours is better.” Some pushed, some were pushed, and almost everyone fell off.

And the joke of it all? If they had just looked ahead instead of at each other, held hands instead of shoving shoulders, they would have seen that all the tightropes came back together into one and tethered into the same endpoint.